


my first MASH fic please be gentle

by taylor_tut



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 13:45:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17387453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: A heat wave makes Hawkeye miss the warning signs that he's coming down with a bug until he's unable to handle it himself anymore.





	my first MASH fic please be gentle

Hawkeye had never seen the mess hall so miserable as a collective whole. A raging heat wave was in full swing and affecting everyone, himself included. Not only were people sticky and overheated, but no one was sleeping through the night, either, which meant that little mistakes were being made all over and everyone had shorter fuses with which to deal with them, so there wasn't a lot of chatter going on.

“I didn’t get the memo that we were making a calendar,” he greeted his table, gesturing to the fact that everyone had come to breakfast in barely more than their undergarments. 

“Well, get to hair and makeup, because you’re February,” BJ quipped around a mouthful of toast. 

“What do you think, overtly alluring,” he asked, pausing to make an exaggeratedly seductive face at his friend, “or girl-next-door?” he finished, batting bashful lashes. 

“Let’s see what else you’ve got.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Charles chastised, rolling his eyes. Colonel Potter, however, was laughing. 

“How do you two jokers still manage to keep up these shenanigans when in this miserable heat?” he asked, grimacing as he swallowed a hot-but-necessary sip of coffee. 

“A combination of good genes and dedication to the sport,” Hawkeye returned. He sipped at his coffee, knowing that he should eat something to sustain himself for a day of surgery but not feeling that he could stomach it. Leave it to Margaret to notice that. 

“Aren’t you going to have breakfast?” she asked, frowning as Hawkeye gestured to his mug. 

“Liquid breakfast,” he dodged, earning disapproving stares from the whole table. He sighed. “I’m not so hungry. The heat; you know.” 

“Caffeine and low blood sugar are going to make you shaky,” Charles pointed out, pushing a bowl of untouched, unwanted, cold grits his way. “At least have something before hell breaks loose and you miss the opportunity.”

Since refusing would raise more questions than he wanted to answer and perhaps threats of a funnel, he gave a quick, somewhat sarcastic smile and forced a bite down his throat. “Mm, gluey,” he remarked to cover the somewhat nauseated grimace that he couldn’t stifle. Saving him by the bell, Radar’s voice suddenly echoed through the compound.

“Attention, all personnel, incoming wounded! One ambulance and one chopper.”

The whole group sighed, dreading the idea of huddling up in the OR where there would be no fresh air and too many people. 

“Alright, rock paper scissors?” BJ asked, and Potter rolled his eyes.

“I want all hands on deck for this one,” Potter commanded. “That way we can enforce more water breaks. I don't want anyone swooning.” The head rush that Hawkeye blinked away as he stood didn't inspire much confidence, but he followed his fellow officers into the scrubbing station all the same.

 

He put up a valiant effort, managing to push through two minor injuries and halfway through one severe before he really started to feel like maybe he needed to lie down. Despite really wanting to finish, the heat was starting to get to Hawkeye. How was no one else feeling this? Three other people were standing at the same table above the same patient, but it seemed that only he was aware that the room was melting around them. Just as they were about to begin sewing a chest shut, Hawkeye noticed something. Feeling as though he was thinking through molasses, Hawkeye pushed BJ’s hands away from the wound. 

“Problem?” he asked, freezing before he could put a stitch in. “I thought we were good to close.”

Hawkeye shook his head, regretting it instantly as it made him even dizzier. “I saw a bubble,” he explained. “There’s still a hole in the lung. Trapper, can you—”

“Trapper?” BJ questioned, his concerned gaze suddenly turned on Hawkeye. He made a slightly irritated, dismissive gesture with his hands.

“Sorry, Beej,” he corrected. “It’s so hot; I’m not thinking straight. Just a slip of the tongue.” BJ gently took his scalpel from his hand and pushed his hands back. 

“Well, why don’t you sit back for a moment, yeah? Before it becomes a slip of the hand.” Hawkeye nodded, blinking heavily to try to clear the black spots from his vision, and wavered into the table dangerously. 

“Woah!” BJ exclaimed, concerned both for his friend and for the patient whose lung he could have punctured with the needle had he been an inch closer to it. He handed his surgical tools to the nurse next to him to steady Hawkeye and gestured to summon Margaret, who was eyeing them from two tables over. 

 

Hawkeye was beginning to feel lightheaded from trying to breathe the hot air that circulated in his mask, the stifling humidity making it impossible to feel like he was getting any breath at all. He’d been ignoring the headache all morning—it was a hot day, and everyone was likely feeling the same way, after all, but he didn’t see anyone else complaining. There was no way that Hawkeye could do it for even another second. His brain was beginning the oxygen-starved panic that preceded passing out entirely, so he stepped away from BJ’s grip to pull off his mask. However, his gloves were covered in blood. 

“Margaret,” he called, unable to keep the desperation from his voice, which had her by his side in a heartbeat despite that he was pretty sure she’d been on the other side of the OR a moment ago.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her hands fluttering over him trying to find the problem. 

“I think he's passing out a little bit,” BJ explained.

“My mask, I can’t—will you—” 

“Okay; okay; I’ve got you,” she reassured. It was apparently all the information she needed to unglove and reach around to the back of his head with one hand, using the other to touch his cheek to keep him calm. With the mask untied and off his mouth and nose, he was finally able to take a few shaky, rattling breaths in and didn’t notice that she was sitting him down on the ground until he was already looking up at her concerned face crouching in front of him. “Doctor, you’re really overheated,” she fretted, standing and then returning with a wet sponge to dab at his face. 

“Aren’t we all,” he muttered, and she shook her head.

“Not like this.” She was fanning his face with a patient chart, which wasn’t doing very much but it was better than nothing. “You need to sit here for a moment and cool down.” 

“Hawkeye, you alright?” BJ called over his shoulder, and Hawkeye offered a weak thumbs-up as a wordless reply. 

“Can you finish up closing?” 

Margaret rolled her eyes. “I can help him with that,” she dismissed. “Just sit.” 

Hawkeye rubbed a hand over his scruffy face, feeling the heat radiating from it. God, the OR was intolerably stuffy on a GOOD day, but in the heat of summer, it was positively deadly. After a moment on the floor, his head started to clear a bit, but the headache from breakfast was still pounding behind his eyes and had gotten worse if anything. His stomach was churning, though that could also be from not having eaten anything all day. 

“Is he alright?” Potter called, and though Hawkeye nodded, Margaret disagreed. 

“He's on the verge of a heat stroke if he's not having one already,” she tattled. 

“Not good. Someone with free hands take him to the showers; get him under cool water until his temperature’s below 100,” Potter commanded, and Hawkeye still had the wherewithal to disagree.

“Come on, Colonel, I just need a cup of water and a minute to sit,” he argued, knowing he was debating a wall. Once the Colonel had his mind made up, there was no changing it.

“We're almost done here, anyway, Hawkeye; don't fight me on this.”

“Then at least just let me do it myself. I’m perfectly capable; I am a doctor, you know.”

“That did cross my mind; however you and I both know that if your temperature is too elevated, you’ll probably make the shower too warm and end up making things worse. I'd rather be down a nurse for an hour than have to send for a new surgeon when that brain of yours cooks.”

Deciding it was easier to go quietly, Hawkeye forced a shaky smile. 

“Then I'll be back when it's back to medium rare,” he promised as one of the nurses ushered him out of the OR and to the showers.

 

He was finally released from the showers after almost half an hour of awkward, monitored bathing and allowed back to the OR, but ever since he’d finished the shower, he’d found that he hadn’t been able to warm up again, weather be damned. By the time meatball surgery time was over, everyone was exhausted and more than ready to collapse onto the tables and benches of the back room, but none more so than Hawkeye, who was feeling possibly worse than when he’d been excused from surgery that morning. Instead of lying down, he shoved himself into the corner of the bench and tried to make himself small in an attempt to gain back some of his body heat.

“I need to sleep for a week,” BJ remarked, lying flat on his back on a table, “at the very least.”

Charles, not even bothering to maintain his normal haughty attitude, seemed to agree. “If you could wake me around that time, I’d much appreciate it.”

Potter laughed bitterly. “We all deserve some rest and relaxation,” he admitted, “but I’d bet my bottom dollar we’ll be back in there before tonight is finished.” Hawkeye couldn’t bite back a groan, one that sounded apparently more miserable than just his usual complaining, because Margaret looked over at him, frowning.

“How are you feeling, Hawkeye?” she asked. “Still overheated?”

He shook his head. “I can confidently say that’s the only cold shower I’ve ever taken that’s fully accomplished what it was supposed to,” he mused. “Hell has frozen over.” BJ propped himself up on his arms to look over at him and was immediately concerned about how pale his face was and how much he was shaking.

“You sure you’re not coming down with something?” he asked, and Hawkeye shook his head, waving his hands in a dismissive gesture. 

“I’m fine.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I don’t have time to get sick,” he maintained, and Charles rolled his eyes.

“Well then, perhaps you should ask one of those soldiers in post-op for time-management tips,” Charles suggested. “They somehow all seem to find the time.”

Hawkeye rubbed his temples and groaned, but before he could respond, Potter cut him off.

“I think where Doctor Pierce’s scheduling squabbles lie is less in contracting illness and more in treating it,” he pointed out. “He’s fine being any place in this MASH unit except in a bed, where he belongs.”

“‘He’ can hear everything you’re saying,” Hawkeye remarked, and BJ nodded. 

“That’s the first time he’s ever admitted to listening to anyone,” he noted, “so that can’t be good.”

“Then maybe you’ll stop being so stubborn and just take a few days off to rest and recover,” Margaret hoped, and Hawkeye stood up, feeling suddenly and uncharacteristically irritable. He blamed the headache and chills. 

“Will everyone just leave me alone about this?” he demanded, closing his eyes as everything spun for a moment. “We all feel lousy, and harping on it isn’t going to make it any easier to deal with.”

Though his friends looked scolded, Potter wasn’t nearly as keen on receiving orders as he was on giving them, and stood square in front of him, forcing him to straighten his sore body into a more attentive posture. 

“Don’t be so dense, Pierce,” he commanded gruffly. “A doctor who’s too ill to operate safely can be a deadly weapon in an OR. I expect you to be mature enough to excuse yourself from duty if that’s the case.” 

Damn, he had him there. Raising one hand to press his thumb into a throbbing eye socket, he finally caved. 

“Alright; alright,” he said irritably, “I’m going to lie down for a couple hours. But if there’s another rush of wounded kids, I want to be woken up; I’m not sick enough to leave my post in an emergency.”

“Understood,” Colonel Potter nodded, infuriatingly self-satisfied. “Now, go get some shut-eye. You really look like you could use it. And if you start feeling worse, I’m trusting you to come and get one of us.” 

Hawkeye made some kind of affirmative grunt as he turned to leave, feeling suddenly so tired that he could barely even manage the short distance to the Swamp. By the time he got back, everything was spinning, and despite the fact that he knew that it was concerning, he couldn’t muster up the energy to go all the way back to the mess just to tell them he thought he had a fever. A little sleep would probably clear it up, after all, so he tangled himself up in his blanket, then decided that wasn’t enough and stole the ones from BJ’s and Charle’s bed, too, and crawled back into bed miserably.

 

BJ had a bad feeling about Hawkeye’s demeanor and appearance. Not only was he pale and flushed, which a lot of them were just from the weather, but he was in a mood that he’d never seen Hawkeye adopt before: crabby. His jokes were forced and his fuse was short, and that was just so un-Hawkeye that he couldn’t push the apprehensiveness to the back of his mind: something was not right, and when things weren’t right here in the MASH unit, usually they blew up. 

Dinner was quiet without him, and he though he’d hoped against hope that he’d show up by the end of dinner to relieve Charles in post-op, he didn’t. Charles was apparently thinking the same thing, because he shot BJ an uncertain look that told him that, for the first time, he wanted to default to someone else’s opinion.

“It’s time for Pierce’s shift in post-OP,” he pointed out despite knowing that BJ knew that. 

“I can take over for him if he’s not up to it,” he replied immediately, “but I’d still like to come with you to wake him up and see how he’s doing.” 

Together, they walked back to the Swamp, and as soon as they opened the door, BJ’s fears were confirmed: the room was a mess and Hawkeye was in the middle of it, curled tightly into a ball on his bed so that his face wasn’t visible. Blankets, clearly stolen from all three beds, had been kicked onto the floor, and he’d clearly stumbled around for a bit on his way into the room because things were knocked off bedside tables and hadn’t been picked up. Charles nudged BJ in the ribs so he’d step forward toward his bed.

“Hey, Hawkeye,” he called gently, “wake up. I think it’s time to let us look you over.” When Hawkeye barely stirred, BJ reached out to shake him awake and winced at the heat that he could feel radiating off him. “Charles, get a thermometer,” he commanded lightly, “he’s really burning up. Hawkeye, come on; wakey wakey.”

Hawkeye pried his eyes open and immediately covered them with one hand as if even the meager light inside the tent was painful. 

“Under the tongue,” Charles said as he put the thermometer to Hawkeye’s mouth and waited for him to open up. Because he had to confirm it himself, he reached out to press a hand to Hawkeye’s forehead and had to admit that BJ wasn’t just being overprotective of his best friend: this was bad. “That’s no low-grade fever,” he said urgently. “Has he been exposed to anything lately; something tropical?”

BJ shrugged. “He’s been exposed to the same patients we all have,” he said, “but I’d have to comb through the charts for anything specific.” 

“What about an infected injury?”

“Nothing he’s mentioned.”

“It’s just a bug,” Hawkeye muttered around the thermometer, and BJ huffed a sigh. 

“‘Just’ nothing,” he argued, taking the instrument from his mouth and shaking his head disapprovingly at the reading. “Temp’s over 103,” he announced. 

“What hurts?” Charles asked, already moving to palpate his abdomen. “Any stomach cramps? Nausea?”

“Nausea, no cramps,” he replied. “Honestly, I think it’s the flu bug that Radar had last week.”

“Radar didn’t have a fever like this,” BJ pointed out.

“He also wasn’t working in a crowded tent 15 hours at a time in 90 degree weather,” Hawkeye countered. “All signs point to the flu—my body hurts; my head’s killing me; I’m exhausted. It’ll pass.” 

Charles nodded reluctantly. “It fits,” he admitted, “but I’d still like to draw blood to rule out malaria. We need to know if Klinger should send for more chloroquine. ” 

He didn’t like it, but Hawkeye sighed in acceptance. Suddenly, a thought hit him full force, filling his facial expression with dread. “Ugh, is it my turn to work post-op? I don’t want to move.”

“Well, you’re going to post-op,” BJ said firmly, “but I’ll give you a choice of either working or taking a bed.”

“Mhmm,” he finally caved, allowing BJ and Charles to get under his arms and help him stand, “that doesn’t sound half bad.”

“I’ll even sweeten the deal with IV fluids and painkillers,” Charles offered. “You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

“You’re too good to me,” Hawkeye said. 

BJ rolled his eyes. “If this happens again, you’ve got to get one of us some time before your temperature is popping your neurons into popcorn,” he warned. “You’re a doctor; I thought those guys were supposed to be smart.”

“I don’t know; they let Burns do it.”

“It’s my professional medical opinion that you’re permitted to add a sedative to his cocktail,” Charles offered as Potter opened the door for the three to enter.

“He’s alright,” BJ reassured before the Colonel could even ask, “just needs some penicillin and fluids.” The Colonel hurried to help them settle him into a bed, which Hawkeye didn’t appear to be enjoying, but tolerated because he had no other choice.

“It’s touching to have so many loving mothers,” he teased. 

“Your bedtime story will be a lecture about giving the rest of us some warning before you collapse,” he threatened, and Hawkeye smiled.

“As long as you tuck me in after and tell me I’m your specialist boy.”

Potter clapped him on the shoulder as BJ pricked his arm with the needle to begin fluids. “You’re sure something,” he admitted. “Get some rest, Captain. You deserve it.” He was tired enough to obey without another word, knowing that the rest of them would likely have words for him when he woke up and that he’d need all his energy for it. 


End file.
